


Washington Has His Eyes On You

by atleasttheweathersnice



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Afterlife, Fluff, Gen, it might not be, meant to be kind of funny, what i'm saying is don't take it too seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atleasttheweathersnice/pseuds/atleasttheweathersnice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Hamilton had known beforehand that dying would involve having to face Washington, he would have done a lot more to avoid the duel with Burr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Washington Has His Eyes On You

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post: http://asphaltandblackberries.tumblr.com/post/138717613189/washington-is-judging-you-from-the-other-side

As he stand in front of the high gates, eyes averted from the unbearable brightness of the being welcoming him to what he supposes must be a Heaven of some kind, Hamilton wonders if it would be terribly rude to ask if he might be reassigned to Hell. Because at the moment, eternal torment at the hands of Satan seems preferable to what he’s sure is awaiting him on the other side of these gates. An angry Washington.

If Hamilton had known beforehand that dying would involve having to face his former commander, he would have done a lot more to avoid the duel with Burr. Such as changing his name, moving to Europe or possibly even apologize for everything. Because one of the things Washington had always been very clear about was his deep disapproval of duels and any even peripheral involvement of Hamilton in them.

And dying in one isn’t exactly peripheral.

Shouldn’t being almost fifty years of age mean no longer dreading the disapproval of his once superior?

The being in front of him finishes whatever it is it’s doing and the gates swing open. If he were to simply walk the other way, Hamilton thinks, would he get somewhere? Getting nowhere would be acceptable as well, really, as long as it isn’t anywhere close to Washington.

There’s the sound of a throat clearing in prompting and it takes Hamilton a moment to place the origin as the divine doorman. The very mundane sound is out of place coming from a being like that. Regardless, Hamilton suspect disobedience is not a good option, so he stiffly walks through the gates. All men are equal in death, he tells himself.

Washington is the first thing he sees of the afterlife. The General is standing with his arms crossed and his lips pursed in a familiar expression of _I’m very unhappy with you, young man_. It’s all the more familiar since Washington is looking as he did during his presidency, rather than the elderly man he was at the end.

Just as he is on the very verge of turning around and bolting for whatever is behind him, Hamilton hears the gates close with a heavy thump. His only other option taken away from him, Hamilton slowly begins his walk toward Washington. At least, he reflects, Washington can’t very well kill him.

Hamilton comes to a halt a few feet in front of Washington and draws himself up into his most military posture, clasping his hands behind his back. “Sir.”

For a few nerve-wrecking seconds, Washington stands completely still, piercing gaze fixed on Hamilton. Then he uncrosses his arms and a warm smile blooms on his face. “My dear Hamilton,” he says, “Alexander.”

He closes the distance between them with two quick steps and before Hamilton has time to react engulfs him in a tight embrace. Hamilton hesitates, but then he raises his arms to return the embrace. It’s better than being lectured, at least. And, Hamilton admits to himself, the touch of the man that had in the end been so much more than just a president or a commander to him is not entirely unwelcome.

But after several seconds with no sign of Washington loosening his grip, Hamilton wiggles out of the embrace. He might be dead, but he still has his dignity. The General lets him go, but keeps a hand on his shoulder.

“My dear Hamilton,” he says again, warm affection lacing his voice.

“Your Excellency,” Hamilton replies and gives a small bow. Washington smiles, fondness and amusement in equal parts.

“I do believe we can forego the titles by now. Use my name.”

Now that, Hamilton reflects, is hardly the request of a man preparing to rake him over the coals for dueling. But it’s also a request that he can’t really see himself complying with. Addressing the former president as simply Washington? Regardless of the fact that their stations are no longer as far apart as they once were, it just seems wrong.

“Yes, Sir,” he says anyway. Then he hesitates. Perhaps it’s the streak of martyrdom in him, but he wants to get to the subject he’s dreading as soon as possible. “I thought… that is, you gave the impression earlier that you are not, perhaps, entirely happy with the manner of my demise.”

“I am absolutely furious with you,” Washington says completely evenly, “and we will speak about your abysmal decision-making at length, but there is time for that later. There is an eternity for it, in fact. For now, I simply want to enjoy your company once again.”

The reminder that Washington will have eternity to express his disapproval isn’t exactly comforting, but at least Hamilton will have time to settle before he’s verbally eviscerated.

“Ah.” Hamilton clears his throat. “Well, I will be sure to have a complete explanation of my actions readied by then, Sir.”

Washington’s mouth curves into an amused smile. “You forget that I already know what happened. A benefit of being dead is the ability to keep track of unruly subordinates.”

“A valid point, Sir, but as I hope you will give me opportunity to demonstrate, the course of events look different from the point of view of an involved party in a way that is, I believe, to my advantage.”

He realizes, a bit belatedly, that he should probably have contested being called a subordinate – an _unruly_ subordinate, at that – since Washington can hardly be said to be in any position of authority over him anymore, but backtracking to mention it now would simply be ridiculous, especially given the way Washington already looks amused.

“I have missed you,” he says softly, ignoring Hamilton’s words.

Uncomfortable with the weight of the unmistakably fond gaze resting on him – and how is it that even in death Washington can make him almost physically feel his eyes on him? – Hamilton fidgets.

“I have missed you too, Sir,” he admits after a moment and Washington smiles again. The expression, strangely enough, seems to come easier to the man in death.

He puts an arm around Hamilton’s shoulders. “Come,” he says, “There are others who will want to see you again.”


End file.
